Lest Darkness Fall (32 page)

            He gave orders, in the
government's name, for casting and boring a cannon. The brass foundry that took
the job was not co-operative. They had never seen such a contraption and were
not sure they could make it. What did he want this tube for, a flower pot?

            It took them an interminable
time to get the pattern and core made, despite the simplicity of the thing. The
first one they delivered looked all right, until Padway examined the breach end
closely. The metal here was spongy and pitted. The gun would have blown up the
first time it was fired.

            The trouble was that it had
been cast muzzle down. The solution was to add a foot to the length of the
barrel, cast it muzzle up, and saw off the last foot of flawed brass.

            His efforts to produce
gunpowder got nowhere. Lots of proportions of the ingredients would burn
beautifully when ignited. But they did not explode. He tried all proportions;
he varied his method of mixing. Still all he got was a lively sizzle, a big
yellow flame, and a stench. He tried packing the stuff into improvised
firecrackers. They went
fuff
. They would not go
bang
.

            Perhaps he had to touch off
a large quantity at once, more tightly compressed yet. He pestered the foundry
daily until the second cannon appeared.

            Early next morning he and
Fritharik and a couple of helpers mounted the cannon on a crude carriage of
planks in a vacant space near the Viminal Gate. The helpers had previously
piled up a sandhill for a target, thirty feet from the gun.

            Padway rammed several pounds
of powder down the barrel, and a cast-iron ball after it. He filled the
touch-hole.

            He said in a low voice:
"Fritharik, give me that candle. Now get back everybody. Way over there,
and lie down. You too, Fritharik."

            "Never!" said
Fritharik indignantly. "Desert my lord in the hour of danger? I should say
not!"

            "All right, if you want
to chance being blown to bits. Here goes."

            Padway touched the candle
flame to the touch-hole.

            The powder sizzled and
sparkled.

            The gun went
pfoomp!
The cannon-ball hopped from the muzzle, thumped to earth a yard away, rolled
another yard, and stopped.

            Back went the beautiful
shiny new gun to Padway's house, to be put in the cellar with the clock.

-

            In the early spring, Urias
appeared in Rome. He explained that he'd left the military academy in the hands
of subordinates, and was coming down to see about raising a militia force of
Romans, which had been another of Padway's ideas. But he had an unhappy,
hangdog air that made Padway suspect that that wasn't the real reason.

            To Padway's leading
questions he finally burst out: "Excellent Martinus, you'll simply have to
give me a command somewhere away from Ravenna. I can't stand it any
longer."

            Padway put his arm around
Urias' shoulders. "Come on, old man, tell me what is bothering you. Maybe
I can help."

            Urias looked at the ground.
"Uh ... well... that is — Look here, just what is the arrangement between
you and Mathaswentha?"

            "I thought that was it.
You've been seeing her, haven't you?"

            "Yes, I have. And if
you send me back there, I shall see her some more in spite of myself. Are you
and she betrothed, or what?"

            "I did have some such
idea once." Padway put on the air of one about to make a great sacrifice.
"But, my friend, I wouldn't stand in the way of anybody's happiness. I'm
sure you're much better suited to her than I. My work keeps me too busy to make
a good husband. So if you want to sue for her hand, go to it, with my
blessing."

            "You mean that?"
Urias jumped up and began pacing the floor, fairly beaming. "I ... I don't
know how to thank you ... it's the greatest thing you could do for me ... I'm
your friend for Me —"

            "Don't mention it; I'm
glad to help you out. But now that you're down here, you might as well finish
the job you came to do."

            "Oh," said Urias
soberly. "I suppose I ought to, at that. But how shall I press my suit,
then?"

            "Write her."

            "But how can I? I don't
know the pretty phrases. In fact, I've never written a love letter in my
life."

            "I'll help you out with
that, too. Here, we can start right now." Padway got out writing
materials, and they were presently concocting a letter to the princess.
"Let's see," said Padway reflectively, "we ought to tell her
what her eyes are like."

            "They're just like
eyes, aren't they?"

            "Of course, but in this
business you compare them to the stars and things."

            Urias thought. "They're
about the color of a glacier I once saw in the Alps."

            "No, that wouldn't do.
It would imply that they were as cold as ice."

            "They also remind you
of a polished sword blade."

            "Similar objection. How
about the northern seas?"

            "
Hm-m-m
. Yes, I
think that would do, Martinus. Gray as the northern seas."

            "It has a fine poetic
ring to it."

            "So it has. Northern
seas it shall be, then." Urias wrote slowly and awkwardly.

            Padway said: "Hey,
don't bear down so hard with that pen. You'll poke a hole in that paper."

            As Urias was finishing the
letter, Padway clapped on his hat and made for the door.

            "
Hai
," said
Urias, "what's your hurry?"

            Padway grinned. "I'm
just going to see some friends; a family named Anicius. Nice people. I'll
introduce you to them some day when you're safely sewed up."

            Padway's original idea had
been to introduce a mild form of selective conscription, beginning with the
city of Rome and requiring the draftees to report for weekly drill. The Senate,
which at this time was a mere municipal council, balked. Some of them disliked
or distrusted Padway. Some wanted to be bribed.

            Padway did not want to give
into them until he had tried everything else. He had Urias announce drills on a
voluntary basis, at current wages. Results were disappointing.

            Padway's thoughts were
abruptly snatched from the remilitarization of the Italians when Junianus came
in with a telegraph message. It read simply:

-

            WITTIGIS
ESCAPED FROM DETENTION LAST NIGHT. NO TRACE OF HIM HAS BEEN FOUND.

(SIGNED)

ATURPAD
THE PERSIAN,

COMMANDING.

-

            For a minute Padway simply
stared at the message. Then he jumped up and yelled: "Fritharik!

            Get our horses!"

            They clattered over to
Urias' headquarters. Urias looked grave. "This puts me in an awkward
position, Martinus. My uncle will undoubtedly try to regain his crown. He's a
stubborn man, you know."

            "I know. But you know
how important it is to keep things going the way they are."

            "
Ja
. I won't go
back on you. But you couldn't expect me to try to harm my uncle. I like him,
even if he is a thickheaded old grouch."

            "You stick with me and
I promise you I'll do my best to see that he isn't harmed. But just now I'm
concerned with keeping him from harming us."

            "How do you suppose he
got out? Bribery?"

            "I know as much as you
do. I doubt the bribery; at least Aturpad is considered an honorable man. What
do you think Wittigis will do?"

            "If it were me, I'd
hide out for a while and gather my partisans. That would be logical. But my
uncle never was very logical. And he hates Thiudahad worse than anything on earth.
Especially after Thiudahad's attempt to have him murdered. My guess is that
he'll head straight for Ravenna and try to do Thiudahad in personally."

            "All right, then, we'll
collect some fast cavalry and head that way ourselves."

            Padway thought he was pretty
well hardened to long-distance riding. But it was all he could do to stand the
pace that Urias set. When they reached Ravenna in the early morning he was
reeling, red-eyed, in the saddle.

            They asked no questions, but
galloped straight for the palace. The town seemed normal enough. Most of the
citizens were at breakfast. But at the palace the normal guard was not to be
seen.

            "That looks bad,"
said Urias. They and their men dismounted, drew their swords, and marched in
six abreast. A guard appeared at the head of the stairs. He grabbed at his
sword, then recognized Urias and Padway.

            "Oh, it's you," he
said noncommittally.

            "Yes, it's us,"
replied Padway. "What's up?"

            "Well ... uh ... you'd
better go see for yourselves, noble sirs. Excuse me." And the Goth whisked
out of sight.

            They tramped on through the
empty halls. Doors shut before they came to them, and there was whispering
behind them. Padway wondered if they were walking into a trap. He sent back a
squad to hold the front door.

            At the entrance to the royal
apartments they found a clump of guards. A couple of these brought their spears
up, but the rest simply stood uncertainly. Padway said calmly, "Stand
back, boys," and went in.

            "Oh, merciful
Christ!" said Urias softly.

            There were several people
standing around a body on the floor. Padway asked them to stand aside, which
they did meekly. The body was that of Wittigis. His tunic was ripped by a dozen
sword and spear wounds. The rug under him was sopping.

            The chief usher looked
amazedly at Padway. "This just happened, my lord. Yet you have come all
the way from Rome because of it. How did you know?"

            "I have ways,"
said Padway. "How did it happen?"

            "Wittigis was let into
the palace by a guard friendly to him. He would have killed our noble king, but
he was seen, and other guards hurried to the rescue. The guards killed
him," he added unnecessarily. Anybody could see that.

            A sound from the corner made
Padway look up. There crouched Thiudahad, half dressed. Nobody seemed to be
paying much attention. Thiudahad's ashy face peered at Padway.

            "Dear me, it's my new
prefect, isn't it? Your name is Cassiodorus. But how much younger you look, my
dear sir. Ah, me, we'll grow old sometime. Heh-heh. Let's publish a book, my
dear Cassiodorus. Heigh-ho, yes, indeed, a lovely new book with purple covers.
Heh-heh. We'll serve it for dinner, with pepper and gravy. That's the way to
eat a fowl. Yes, three hundred pages at least. By the way, have you seen that
rascally general of mine, Wittigis? I heard he was coming to call. Dreadful
bore; no scholar at all. Heigh-ho, dear me, I feel like dancing. Do you dance,
my dear Wittigis? La-la-la, la-la-la, dum de-um de-um."